Wednesday, August 25, 2021


After all the thick music 
and the bleak 
diary entries,

after Nobel prizes 
and analyses 
are accepted—

isn't a poem just 
a little machine:

a firework 
which displays
(in the flair of its plume)

one frame 
of a dream? 

Is it not a we
divided by me

a body on a page
stalked offstage 
by a concept?

Or, shall we make it
even easier to defend 

and claim it's 
more like a novel 

with everything 
but the intensest feelings 
wrung out of it—

until all that's left 
is a curious pulp 

that molds
in our grip 

to the shape 
of deep silence?